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“Where’d you get that truck and trailer?” he growls, this nasty sneer on his face. “I’m not stupid, chucklefuck.”
And I beg to differ.
I smile, sensing the movement behind the men.
“Truck? Trailer?” I repeat, giving him my dumbest grin. “Look, man, I’ve been driving them for years. I’m not sure what you’re so worried about. If you’ll just give me a chance, I’ll—”
“You heard me!” Bordell roars, jerking his gun at me, his face red. “Quit making me repeat myself. Where’d you get—”
“Drop the guns, y’all!” Faulk belts out right as he and Hank cock their rifles. “Now!”
There’s a second of slow surprise. Recognition.
The goons hesitate.
Sensing Bordell and his boys aren’t gonna comply, I dive around the truck for cover as I whip out my nine millimeter.
Can’t say I’m thrilled to be in the middle of a proper shootout like I haven’t seen since Iraq, but fuck. If Bordell wants to play hardball, I’ll oblige.
The next few minutes are a flurry of blurry movements and cracking gunfire. I duck around the corner of the truck, aiming at the knees of one goon, bringing him down on the pavement.
Even without the sniper rifle I wield like a third arm, I’m a damn good marksman.
It’s over in seconds.
When all falls silent for the count of eight, I glance around the truck again.
Bordell and his goons are on the ground, being handcuffed, the bastard I shot screaming that he needs an ambulance.
“Hell, buddy, you’re okay. It’s just a flesh wound,” Hank says, looking like an old-timey gunslinger in his cowboy hat and giving the goon a rough shove with the toe of his boot. “If we wanted your ass dead, you would be. Now sit the fuck up.”
Ridge might be the Western actor in our crew, but Hank’s the guy who could’ve really lived in the Old West.
“Grady?” Faulk looks at me, his green eyes flashing.
“I’m good. Let’s get this trash ready for pickup. Keep your eyes on them,” I say.
First thing I do is look in the back of their truck after dragging Bordell, whom I’d taken down and cuffed, over to sit next to the goons. It has a big empty cage, and nothing else.
“Your venture with the Fosses is over, Bordell,” I say, once I’m leering over him again. “Better get your statement ready for the Feds.”
“Fuck you. Don’t know who you’re talking about,” he lies.
“Mighty forgetful, huh?” I laugh at him. “That’s okay. Before you shat up my cameras, I got footage of you and Priscilla Foss selling a lion cub. It’s already being turned over to the FBI.” I make a show of glancing at the sun, as if checking the time. “The same folks who started raiding Exotic Plains about the same time you showed up here.”
His face falls, fear wiping away the hot, delusional rage he’d worn earlier.
Still, I expected a bigger tantrum. Pukes like him usually start bargaining when they know they’ve got their dick stuck in a closed door.
An eerie sensation hits me, hard, and I glance at Faulk.
He looks up from his phone, talking to some agent, and then at Bordell.
“If you want any leniency,” Faulk growls, peering down at him. “Tell me where the Fosses are right now.”
Bordell sneers like the venomous little creature he is.
I grab him by the front of his uniform shirt and lift him off the ground, despite his bulk.
“Where the fuck are they? Start talking and tell the nice man, or your fate goes from over to fucking doomed.”
He turns pasty white, but I don’t like that sliver of a smile on his face as he looks at me and whispers one word like a dark incantation.
“Wyoming,” he rattles.
Wyo—
Oh.
Oh, mother-fuck.
I throw him to the ground, grinding my teeth, panic flooding my brain.
“Grady? What’s going on?” Hank asks, rushing over.
“They’re after Willow!” It’s all I can say when every instinct stabbing through me screams move.
I run to the truck, grab my phone, and hit Weston’s number.
“Shit, I’ll get the truck!” Hank shouts, already on the run.
My heart sinks as fast as fear rises when no one answers.
I try it again.
Again.
Again and again and dammit, fuck, again.
“No answer?” Faulk asks coldly, his frown saying he already knows.
I shake my head and reach in, grabbing the bracelet off the blinker switch.
“It’s a five-hour drive,” I snarl. “If they’ve been intercepted, we’ll never make it in time...”
“Did you forget we’ve got a friend with a company helicopter?” Faulk says with a grin, already swiping his phone. “I’m calling Drake. We’ll have the North Earhart chopper pick us up and fly our asses out to Sheridan. I’ll call the FBI branch down there, too. Don’t worry. We’ve got this covered. I ain’t letting anything happen to your lady or that big old orange poof.”
Hank, driving my truck, comes flying up the runway and both Faulk and I run toward it.
